What Shall We Die For?
by ThePlotThinnens
Summary: - King Uther Pendragon, the tyrannical ruler of Albion, discovers the expressly forbidden magic behind Arthur’s recovery, and knows exactly who should surrender their life for his son... -- CHAPTER SIX --
1. One: The King's Lament

**Disclaimer:**** Unfortunately for me, I own none of the Merlin characters, but they **_**are**_** on my Xmas wishlist… We are all naught but pawns, in the strange game of Fate that probably could not be described as Chess…**

Do R&R, if you feel that way inclined. Let me know not to give up the day job just yet… =D

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**Chapter One:**

_The King's Lament._

There is a moment, when the entire world is still. The broken king stands, his dignity, and all forms of majesty having entirely vanished from his demeanour, converting him to nothing but an ashen eminence. Naught but a weak shadow of the warrior he once was.

He embraces the world in his arms, the one boy who keeps him whole, yet he can feel the burden dragging him down. An utter loss slowly begins to trickle into his veins, influencing his thoughts and heading for his heart with every intention of shattering it, filled with the fixation that he is now alone,

His son is his only family, and now, he fears, he will lose the salvation that he has taken for granted within his court. Uther does not want even to so much as glance at the young man in his tight hold, although he can feel the strong hands of fault drawing his narrowed gaze down, towards the still body.

It had been him, the ignorant king of Camelot, who had given the abrupt, seemingly uncaring, order for Arthur's knights to ride out at breaking dawn, to meet the creature that would have such a great part to play in the fate of the Pendragons. The Questing Beast. He knows the identity of his son's killer. A magical creature, there is no doubt about that. Although Uther knows that, upon this earth, it breathes no longer.

There are few words that remain within the old king's mind when faced with a situation such as the one he has been thrown head-long into – A product of his own doing, as his hate-fuelled inner consciousness tells him – Although there is a phrase which is continually striking at his mind, a constant alarm as to the nature of the beast. The Old Religion. The practice of magic.

Previously to this earth-shattering moment, Uther had believed that he had outlawed the Old Religion many years ago, when he had first taken command of the kingdom of Albion, and he was but a young man, although his ambitions overshadowed his age. He had exiled the Old Religion, eradicated it completely from the face of the earth, like the race of the Dragons. Or so he had thought. The irony would seem bliss, if the situation were not what it is.

_There is no way to save the young Pendragon._ The truth strikes Uther like the razor-sharp point of a sword blade penetrating his very self, burying straight into his heart. The words, echoing through his mind, twist the blade in deeper, until there is nothing that can be done. The cold courtyard stone rushes up to meet his weakened knees as they scream their protests, destabilized by the negative thoughts from the king's mind, and the warm, heavy weight of the boy's body in his arms.

The king's feet, clad within their leather boots, curl up at the toes as he kneels, unable to do anything about the sudden, yet distinct, lack of vigour and strength that he finds himself unable to overcome or surmount. Uther feels weak, worse than he ever has done before, as realization dawns upon him, and he understands the true fate that will befall his once and only son. Only a miracle can save him now. This Pendragon does not believe in miracles.

Unwillingly laying the deathly pale, still and silent body of his beloved son upon the grey stone ground, Uther looks up, towards Camelot castle, and all of his surroundings seem to melt before him. Colours and shapes seem blurred within the kaleidoscope of clear crystals that form in his dark eyes, their usually narrowed glare opening up. And it is at that moment that the world sees their king cry.

The king's lament does not go unnoticed, although, later on in this series of events, Uther will wish that it had done… The young man's body is retrieved from the floor, which now supports it entirely, by four strong men, their blood-red cloaks billowing out behind them in the direct northerly wind, accentuating their physical prowess and the burden that they bear. Arthur's knights. Arthur's friends.

The once-great king, now but a pale and discoloured shadow of his former self, kneels upon the ground in his own courtyard, watched by the inquisitive and somewhat violating eyes of each and every passer-by around the static figure. Slowly, the silver tears, glistening upon the tanned and weathered cheeks of the weeping king, begin to slip across the surface, trickling into the aged grooves previously carved upon his skin. The cold from the stones starts to sink through the thin fabric of his trousers, freezing his skin, although he cares not. He prays.

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"I shall not leave him." Uther's belligerent defiance to anything that his court tells him of is almost pugnacious and argumentative, and no one dares to persuade him otherwise. The king remains, as he has done for the past two days, at Arthur's bedside, departing from the room only for the most vital of state responsibilities. Otherwise, he remains right where the ostensibly incurable, comatose Arthur needs him most, discarding the rest of his rational life in favour of his son and heir.

No one has ever seen the king in such a state before this, except that one fateful night, just over twenty years ago, when Uther was a much younger man, and Arthur was no more than a tiny, newborn babe, clutched rigidly within the cold, lifeless arms of the mother that he would never know. It is a forbidden subject, tabooed within the court, and all those who have any dealing at all with the king of Albion know better than even to mention it.

Arthur is so precious that it hurts Uther gravely both mentally and physically to see him in such a state, and know that there is no cure for the injury that he has unjustly taken. Yet the king shall never truly accept defeat until there is no hope whatsoever, even for the rationalist. The sceptic. The disbeliever.

His head hangs low on his shoulders, his eyes turned away from Arthur's prone body - One of the rare moments when Uther's attention is not solely upon his son – As his brain slowly begins to adapt itself into a more immobile status, preparing himself for the respite that has been deprived of the king for so long. His breathing deepens, gradually welcoming Sleep to his weary body, without resistance.

However, even as he pauses in his self-proclaimed duties, watching over his son, Uther's mind never completely allows Arthur out of its metaphoric sight. He knows that he will awaken again, almost instantly, should the young prince so much as stir in his fever-induced rest.

And, with this final thought, Arthur's guardian angel sleeps.

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**A/N.  
Yes, I know that was terrible. However. R&R and I promise you that the next chapter shall be pure, unadulterated awesomness. And shirtless Arthur. =D**


	2. Two: Diminutive Exodus

**Disclaimer: Merlin ist nicht meine. All I have in this world is a Stone Age laptop, and a liking for misspelled German words.**

And so: A rather strange little chapter that I cannot actually vouch for, in the great scheme of things, seeing as I haven't a clue as to how it came about... However, if it _is_ good, then I _guess_ I can take credit... =P

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**Chapter Two:**

_Diminutive Exodus._

Three days. And silence. The hours begin to take their toll upon their king, the cold shadow of nothingness slipping silently into the room that he has resolved to occupy. The shadow of death. Many have come, attempting to force the man to see the sense that he had once been attempting to instil within everyone else, although the only thing that Uther himself can see is the frail and rapidly weakening body of his beloved son. He has not much longer left.

The blemishing droplets of scarlet blood seep from the septic lesion, which disfigures Arthur's bare, entirely revealed chest, as he lies upon the white sheets of his four-poster bed, his closed eyes staring at the ceiling as he starts blindly in his fever-enraptured rest. The thin bandage is already saturated with the crimson life-giving substance, which shows so vivid against the deathly pale colour of his skin. His flaxen hair, unwashed and greasy, lies flat against his damp forehead, soaked through and plastered to his skin with the heat of his illness.

Yet still, Uther does not move. There is something holding him there, whether it is the thought of Arthur awakening and finding an unfamiliar serving maid there, rather than his father, continually watching over him, or something far stronger, as though there is a far more momentous presence watching over the Pendragon males. His business with the state is ignored, dwindling into an almost nothingness. All dealings are left to his court, although he trusts the various members of his entourage with almost everything to do with his kingdom.

However, Uther realises that, for once, events will not instantly go his way, purely because of his elevated status, above all of those around him. 'King' will get him nowhere. Although all these negative thoughts and feelings surrounding the king seem, rather predictably, stemmed from Arthur's body, motionless except for the slight fidget from the dreamless slumber he has once again slipped into, within his coma-like state. Much as he hates to leave him, Uther must.

His bones creak their weary protests as he stands upon his somnolent feet, determined to remain as strong as he physically and mentally can, in both appearance and stature, until the very end, when he knows that he will fall, further than ever before. Giving a final glance towards the young man who lies upon the sheets, the vibrant and visibly scarring red blotches of his blood the only visible colour in the otherwise pale and washed out surroundings.

The king's short sigh masks his exit from the room, clouding the air around him in a brief spell of invisibility from reality. However, all too soon, the mist clears, and he is, once again, lost within himself. One weathered hand runs across the door, chasing the knots and whorls of the old wooden object fearlessly, attempting to vaguely cover the exit that he so does not want to practise, although he knows that he has to. Perhaps it will be a blessing in disguise, to allow the young prince Arthur some true rest, utterly and absolutely alone with his own thoughts and presence.

"_Sleep, Arthur…"_

The door swings back to its previous position, closed and still once again, as the king departs, although his thoughts remain entirely focussed upon the room that he has left behind. Since the night of Ygraine's untimely death, Arthur has been there, in his mind, whether Uther would prefer to accept the fact or deny it entirely.

Entirely oblivious to his father's deep concentration, the young Pendragon dreams.

Short nails, bitten right down to the quick, are not the best way forwards, Merlin decides, resolving to cease in the irritating habit as soon as this hopeless scenario has passed them by, regardless of the outcome and the overall consequences on the people of Albion. The boy can barely stand still, although the energy he spends carelessly is that of nervousness, rather than any fervour that he might feel inclined to waste, what with the great cloud of heavy grey depression being what it is.

To him, Arthur is not just an employer. He is a friend, and a close one at that. Merlin will risk anything, just to have the young prince mockingly smirk at him again… Yet, as Uther could not, neither Merlin nor Gaius can return even the slightest speck of a former lively state to Arthur, no matter how many times they have tried to revive him, with various different methods – Even those effectively outlawed from the realm. He is just too far gone.

"Administer this. To ease his passing." Gaius' sudden voice seems just as stunted as Merlin is sure that his would be, should he have any of the inclination to speak at all. It seems that even the physician does not want to admit the inevitable. Merlin's eyes, sparked with the golden flecks of an unknown magic, flick from Arthur's own closed lids, towards his lips, then back up once more, never remaining upon a single point of his contoured features for more than a few moments.

"No." The single word is surprisingly strong for the situation that the manservant finds himself thrown into, and even Merlin himself seems slightly startled by the amount of his own effort channelled solely into that one, lonely yet expressly defiant, syllable.

"He is going to live. This is not his destiny!" The young boy is barely out of adolescence yet, although his voice is sturdy and supported, as though he has seen far more than the reality of the situation.

"The Priests of the Old Religion have the power to reverse the actions of life and death, you told me so yourself. Uther has not eradicated it completely, whether he thinks he has or not. There is an island, the Isle of the Blessed, just beyond the Valley of the Fallen Kings. I'll go there... Ask for Arthur to be saved..." Merlin's eyes seem almost glazed over and out of focus, considering his actions, and the price that he knows must be paid, to guarantee Arthur's survival.

"No! I cannot allow you to do that; it is too dangerous for a boy..." The volume of Gaius' words is low, almost too quiet to hear, although he has a reason to be extremely cautious of his conversation, especially just feet away from Prince Arthur – Unconscious or not. The island in question is notoriously infamous as the very heart of the Old Religion of pure magic – The banned practice within Uther's kingdom. Merlin's actions fabricate unwanted consequences, especially when the young warlock proceeds without even a second thought of what will come...

"You know I have to do this..." The heated conversation between the physician and the covert sorcerer continues, although as quietly and seemingly stealthily as the fervour-fuelled persuasion exchange will allow, within Arthur's chambers. The door is tightly shut behind them, the young prince remaining unaware, upon the sheets of his four-poster bed and, as far as the two are knowledgeable of, no others listening in on their dangerous dialogue.

However, Merlin's voice is steadily rising, disguising the footsteps of another presence, slowly approaching the wooden doors, which hide Arthur's rooms away from the rest of the castle. The new figure stands there, concealed behind the screen that will obscure his presence from the sight those who would need to know of it the most.

"Gaius, he is going to die, and there is nothing that I can do! Unless there is someone that I can convince, at the Isle of the Blessed, to trade my life for his, then the prince is going to die..." The young man's voice becomes quieter, dropping the end of the sentence rapidly into nothingness as he hears brisk yet heavy footsteps, dying away from the room in which the three men reside. The hurried movements are all that Merlin needs to hear, even though he is still ignorant of the identity of the eavesdropper.

"I have to go now. Someone heard." Merlin stands straight again, taking a couple of hesitant steps towards the door as he does so, and never turning to face Gaius, the man who has been like a surrogate father to Merlin for the past couple of months.

"Merlin, please, it is too dangerous!" But still, the physician attempts to insist the fact upon the strong-willed boy, although he knows that nothing will come of his vain attempts to change Merlin's mind from where it already is so firmly set. The door, stunted in its movements by sheer age, swings shut behind him before the old man has barely finished his pleading.

"Merlin!" The cry is almost instantaneous, the second that the young man reaches the top of the old stone stairs, with the intent to descend and continue. His journey to the Isle of the Blest has barely begun, although the female's voice penetrates deep, shattering the otherwise unnatural silence of the stone building. Long, draping cobalt and amethyst gauze skirts ripple through the unwilling air as it repels the material, brushing across the white foyer, while small, heeled shoes create an unintentional clattering echo around the hall.

She runs towards him, her face painted with the utterly flawless picture of despair and horror, although it is a damaged perfection, owing to its nature. Morgana grips Merlin's hands as she staggers to an unbalanced halt before him, her knuckles almost white as he dares to glance down towards their entwined digits. Her curled, dark hair flows freely over her shoulders, although the style is less elaborate than it had been. She has run.

Her breathing is shaking, clearly unsteady, as she attempts to calm herself, although her thoughts do not rest purely upon herself. The Lady Morgana worries for the entire kingdom, the whole of King Uther's realm. As she speaks, further colour drains from her already pale cheeks, spilling the words almost unconsciously from her painted lips as she stutters.

"It's Uther - He's gone. The king's gone!"

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**A/N.**  
**Little cliffie there, I feel rather impressed... And yes, as soon as you review, there shall be more! I'm not giving up on this one yet...x**


	3. Three: Blessed

**Disclaimer:**** For random yet relatively essential prattle about whether I own these characters or not, see previous chapters.  
****  
**Gah. I wish time slowed down in December, rather than sped up! Would make writing and all that jazz so much easier to fit in… I've had Christmas, my Birthday, _and_ New Year to cope with! But I'm gonna finish this piece. I'm not letting it beat me _that_ easily! =L

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**Chapter Three:**

_Blessed._

Uther looks around. Surveying his surroundings for a second time in the past three minutes, he notices things that he has not even registered before. The small covering of frost decorating the trees that encircle him glints in the brilliant midday sunlight, beaming back brightly into his line of vision. He shades his eyes, although the sharp sensation never vanishes. He is alone, in the silence. The ground around him is sheltered from the sun by the heavy tree canopy, although the king seems to have the light focussed upon him.

He turns slowly from the in-depth study of the forest that surrounds him, almost in awe of the location he has just discovered within his own kingdom, to stand with his back to the trees. Uther's eyes scan the surface of the cold, dark lake with a distinct scrutiny, looking straight down, into its murky depths. The water of the silent lagoon is dense, and entirely lifeless – Or so it seems. The man shudders involuntarily as his thoughts drift to what might lurk beneath his feet… But he dismisses his unease as nothing more than an insignificant trouble that he shall not pay any heed to, returning to the more conscious matters at hand.

Uther forces his eyes upwards, to the surface of the lake, eventually picking out the far-off silhouette of grey stone that casts its dominating shadow over the water, directly ahead of the king. He has to get there. That is where salvation chances upon the wanderer. Although there is more to this place than meets the eye, and the eye takes in merely the smallest details. The antiquity of the place is only outward, as the real power is decidedly concealed. The very ground that the stones stand upon seems to be crumbling away as it stands, although the vestiges of the building remain, unyielding to the elements.

He blinks rapidly, his vision blurring from prolonged exposure to the wind, which seems to be striking directly at him. A short sigh crosses his lips, and many thoughts cross his mind.

This is where his trek comes to a dramatic halt, he thinks, glancing towards the rotting wooden pier, jutting into the water at an angle from the shore. There seems no form of transport across the black lake whatsoever. Nothing to assist the king in the quest that he knows he must complete, or the entirety of Camelot - Everything that he has known in the past twenty years - Will be brought crashing down around his hunched and burdened shoulders.

The king searches, scanning the horizon, everywhere from the very end of the jetty, protruding into the freezing water beyond, to the base of the grey stone ruins, on the brink of his sightline. Nothing.

Uther turns, presently devoid of all point and purpose, and attempting to block the thought that he cannot prevent the inevitable from occurring. He sighs, and there is a distinctly clear sense of a heartfelt disappointment in the single, elongated breath. Suddenly, a small, light sound drags him back to harsh reality.

Facing the forest, he hears it again. A slow and inquisitive half turn is all that is needed to restore the original momentous loyalty and parental vigour to Uther's broken spirit.

There it is. A small vessel, nothing more than a few partially worn planks fastened together, although it is hope, for the broken king. Small ripples of dark water break against the bow of the boat, as it ceases movement, landing at the edge of the jetty, seemingly waiting for him.

Uther boards with cautious step. He reasons that the boat is nothing more than a mirage, and is prepared for this, although his belief is astoundingly rooted when his booted feet meet wooden planks, not cold water. He staggers slightly, finding his footing – Although the years have been kind to the king, he is no longer the young man he once was – Before he lowers himself to the wooden bench crossing the boat.

Uther glances around, scanning the vessel for oars. And there are none. The boat is there for no reason other than to taunt him.

He pauses; sighs. Then the catalyst behind Uther's current situation suddenly dawns upon the man himself.

_Magic._

When his voice rings through the surroundings, echoing, he sounds hesitant. One of the few times in his reign.

"The-- The Isle of the Blessed."

As though answering a command – Uther's vain attempt – The ripples become more insistent, and the man grips the wooden sides in astonishment, as the vessel begins to move, with no manual propulsion.

Pale shapes in the dark water flash below, as the small rowing boat proceeds heedlessly across the lake. But Uther does not focus his dark, determined gaze upon anything but the grey and dilapidated structure that his journey will take him to.

It has been twenty years since he has last set the stone temple in his sights, and the king had vowed never to approach the island again, although circumstances have changed. However, harsh thoughts continually strike him, their sneering voice echoing through Uther's mind with no remorse, of his last request of an 'act of kindness'…

_You killed her, Uther Pendragon. You brought about her death, with or without a 'reason'…_

"No, it wasn't like that-!"

_Continue your protests for as long as you please, although you know that no one will ever forgive you._

"No one else knew! They thought it was a miracle-"

_And just what would your _beloved_ son say, if he knew who had killed his mother?_

"Please, it was never my fault… It was her; it was the sorceress! She killed my wife…"

_So sweet… Pleading like a child. You seem to have managed to convince yourself, _My Lord_, but the truth will always be out there…_

"If it was the only way that we would ever be able to have a child, then I had to do it! I had to do something for her… She-- She was so heartbroken when Gaius told her. We had always dreamed of a family… _I never wanted her to die!_ She was my love, my life, my everything… And now Arthur is all I have…"

Although Uther's mental protests fall on deaf ears, so to speak. For even his own contemptuous inner thoughts have deserted him, rewarding the king with a mere moment of dead silence, before his vessel slowly draws to a dead halt, much like the rest of his mind. Looking up, a crumbling stone archway becomes the entrance to the centre of the ruins, towering over him.

With unsteady step, Uther once again places both feet upon terra firma, although, the second he has done so, he longs to return to the water. A sense of fear and hatred surrounds him, entirely engulfing him in its presence… And almost succeeds in turning him from his vital destination. The only thing dragging him back from returning to his steed, on the opposite side of the wide lake, is the thought of his son.

Uther forces his eyes upwards from their fixed position, staring at his leather boots, to glance around the courtyard.

The surface of the ground is unkempt with grass, a moss of the same sea green emerging from between the aged stones of the surrounding walls. A gull flies overhead, its mournful cry a symbol of Uther's present situation, although the king pays no heed to its summons.

A granite table, surrounded by standing stones, takes pride of place in the centre of the court, and is now the focus of the king's attention. He takes a step forwards, from the arch, towards the midpoint. Nothing happens. A short sigh of faint relief stutters from Uther's split lips, realising that there is no one else in the man-made clearing. Another step, and another, is all that is needed to cover the distance.

He stands before the alter, as he now knows it is, his concentration drawn to the carvings in the lower stone. Uther can only just see these, below the overhanging lip of the table, that juts out, around his waist height, although this gives another reason for curiosity.

There is no image inscribed into the hard rock, merely a sequence of symbols, seemingly entirely disjointed. He scans over them, only vaguely interested… And stops, stone still, as he recognises a three-line character, the grooves filled with blood-red ink. The mark of Nimueh.

Images flick back through his suddenly wary mind. A young man, fair haired, and bright blue eyed… The picture warps, distorting his hair, lengthening and darkening it. The features become softer, feminine, and the ripple of his crested scarlet cloak through the air is now the torn crimson dress of a young, darker woman. Although the eyes remain identical…

"Uther Pendragon."

He whirls around, his sword, encased in its scabbard, striking his left leg as he does so. There she stands, right before him in the once-deserted surrounding, her azure eyes blazing with loathing. An un-aging sorceress, she looks no different than she did that one fateful night, when the king believed that he had lost everything.

As though waking from a nightmare, Uther blinks, although the figure does not vanish, as he had hoped. Instead, heightening the terrible reality of the situation and accepting her presence, he speaks, a single, faltering word. A reply.

"Nimueh…"

"Yes, Uther. No other. Twenty years, I have waited. Twenty years, to see you fall…"


	4. Four: Nimueh

**Disclaimer: If I owned Merlin… Guinevere would be scrapped altogether, and the entire legend would finish perfectly with OTP Morgana and Uther. So, obviously not mine then… =P**

R&R please, m'lovelies!

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**Chapter Four:**

_Nimueh._

Merlin looks around. The breathtaking scenery is much the same as he would have imagined, although the vast expanse of lake does not feature in his previous mental picture. The young warlock's attention is captured by the beautiful surroundings for more than just a couple of minutes – There has never been landscape like this where he has resided previously. Stone castle walls and mud shacks count for nothing against nature.

He turns again, looking out over the endless lake. The bright sunlight is relentless as it flashes like lightning against the water, and Merlin closes his eyes briefly, ignoring it. He cannot let himself be distracted for any length of time. He has a task to complete.

For a moment, standing silent, Merlin's mind flicks back though the events of the past couple of months, from the moment that he had met Arthur, for whom he now worked. The boy smiles slightly, reliving the circumstances they had met under. However, throughout his entire time within Camelot, he has never so much as _liked_ King Uther.

And he was trying to save his life. A change of circumstance indeed.

But this is something that Merlin knows he has to do. If anyone should sacrifice their life for the young prince, then it should be his manservant, not his father.

His proposal, Uther will resist. He knows that. Although, if the king was ever to discover what Merlin really is - How his son has miraculously escaped death every time it has come knocking – Then he will want Merlin dead in sooner events than these.

However, the young warlock's first task is reaching the stone ruins on the opposite side of the waters. A thin mist curls about the base of the island, giving the castle a daunting and eerie feel. It radiates power and mystics, and Merlin feels the magic within him surge. But he restrains it, and his eyes flicker from liquid golden, back to their original shade.

Faint ripples appear on the horizon as he scans the surface of the lake for anything that will aid him, and a battered rowing boat gently bobs towards him. A gust of wind whispers, creating another advantage, and the boat picks up speed, making its way slowly but surely towards him. He stands on the thin jetty, a small smile becoming visible across his features. Someone wants him to succeed.

It never occurs to the young warlock that this someone might not have his best interests at heart. He is more concerned with reaching the Isle of the Blessed…

Merlin stands in the tiny vessel, glancing around at the planks that create the curved base, sitting heavily and silently in the open water. No oars. He curses silently, under his breath, although he knows that this is what he has been born for.

Months ago, when Merlin and Gaius had met, he had used his magic for goodness. This is the magic that Uther fails to see. These are the moments when magic is needed – To help, and save the lives of others. Arthur's image creeps into his mind…

His eyes flash golden once more, the words becoming apparent.

_"Kvarah mesa…"_ Merlin smiles slightly as his spell causes the faint wind to pick up sharply, and the small boat begins across the wide water, to save his destiny.

* * *

Uther takes a short step backwards, away from the woman who has been the source of the hatred within his heart for over twenty years, and glances around, back towards the stone archway. The stones are still there, marking the place where Uther had emerged from the water, onto land. Canals run through the entire structure, although that will not help his escape. The boat is gone.

A cold laugh emerges from the woman's lips as she matches the man's step, although hers is forwards, directly so, and intruding. She knows that he has abandoned himself, the second that he chose his path.

"You have grown old, Pendragon." She speaks, and her voice is naught but a velvety whisper in the silence. Yet Uther hears. The malice is clear in her words, although exceedingly so when her opposition voices his thoughts.

"And my loathing for you has grown with each passing day."

"Now now, _my Lord_…" Her red lips curve into a smirk as she mocks his title, dropping a brief and sarcastic curtsy, yet never takes her azure eyes from his dark ones. "Shall we not forget that you asked for her death…?"

"I did nothing of the sort…" Uther spits, his eyes blazing. "I wanted a son! I _never_ wanted to lose her… You tricked me."

Nimueh takes two steps, crossed movements, as she begins to circle Uther, as though an animal and its prey…

"I was your friend! I made that mistake once. I shall never do so again." She glares at him, hatred in her own eyes. "It was half a year after my exile that I learned you had banished magic from the kingdom, even though you gave that command the day after…"

"And that was your doing. My kingdom was to remain peaceful. There would be no sorcerers to raze everything I had done!" Uther's voice grows. He is no longer afraid of her. He is more worried for what _he_ might do, the mistakes _he_ might make… "I brought peace to Camelot, to Albion. I am not to see anyone destroy that, least of all you!"

Nimueh laughs coldly. It is clear to see in Uther's words that he knows nothing of the various plots and plans that she has so perfectly schemed, with the intent on entire destruction of his life and family. Even over twenty years after his beloved Ygraine's death, he has never treated anyone as before, his love instead entirely for his son, his last remaining family.

"Every sorcerer wants to see you fall, Uther Pendragon…" Nimueh snarls, her voice cold, and filled with the bitterest of hatreds. Since she was a young girl, her one love in life has been her magic, her skill with words and power. Uther had taken that away from Albion the moment that his grief clouded his rational vision and judgement. "Even your own son would defy your laws and regulations, when he becomes king. He will bring magic back to your once-kingdom. He will see that your memory is tainted in bitterness, and tarnished in history forever more!"

Nimueh's scornful words, regarding Arthur, the very man that he has come to save, sees the red drop swiftly over Uther's dark vision. His right hand crosses his body, reaching for his sword in a single, swift motion, with the intent to strike out at her, but the all-seeing sorceress is faster than he. The king stands some distance away from her, although she covers the distance in less time than it takes Uther to blink.

She stands directly before him, her body pressed close to his, in an almost a affectionate gesture, although the taunting emotions clear in her eyes are anything but. Her bright red lips are a slash of distasteful loathing across her features, as she looks straight at him.

"I know what you have come to me for."

"Then you know what I will do to save him." The king speaks with the same vacant tone that he uses when condemning, his emotions never breaking through the blank façade he conceals himself behind.

"Of course I do, Pendragon." She laughs coldly, pressing the palm of a single hand to his tense torso. "I will gladly take your life…" Her voice is naught but a whisper in the anxious silence. Uther feels the tips of her fingers twitch slightly, even through the heavy folds of the tunic that he wears. He wonders of her motives, although he has no time to question, before she speaks again.

"_Rathae tuuva faisiaita!_" She commands, the smirk regaining its placeacross her scarlet lips as she voices her spell.

Uther registers the enchantment merely a second too late, as the entire world spirals. He flies suddenly backwards; his body is limp, the action forced by her dark magic, and collides with the granite alter. Exactly her plan.

The king's head cracks heavily against the stone, and he crumples at its base, weakened and almost entirely helpless. His vision blurs.

"I will gladly take your life…" She repeats, looking down upon his prone and silent form. With his last remains of consciousness, Uther hears her final words. "Although, I may not spare your son's…"

Blackness.


	5. Five: A Scarlett Ribbon

_I know it's been about a hundred years since my last update, but I ran out of batteries. All saddled up with Energizer™ and raring to finish_!

* * *

**Chapter Five:**

_A Scarlett Ribbon._

"_I will gladly take your life… Although, I may not spare your son's…"_

Merlin hears the words, although he does not fully register what the great sorceress means until the fallen body of the king crashes to the ground, before the sacrificial stone alter. No one back at his court is aware of the location of their great king, although not a single man would have wagered his measly earnings on Uther being here: On some God-forsaken island in the middle of nowhere. It seems so unbelievable illogical that there has to be a most pressing reason.

The young man is unbelievably glad that he chose this moment to arrive, rather than minutes, or even seconds after, when it could have been too late. He sees the prone form of Arthur's father, appearing older than ever before, and feels a pity for the man that one would have thought could only come with age and wisdom. The king lies on his side, scarlet, Pendragon-crested robes singed at the hems from the force of the magical bolt, and – Even from this distance – A clear trickle of blood from one ear. Any amount of damage could have been caused.

And still, she does not see the boy warlock. He stands, mouth agape and splayed feet, in the thin archway before the central clearing, surrounded by the beaten stone pillars, and does naught but watch. Nimueh appears caring as she crouches over the lifeless body of the man that so many want rid of, although her blazing eyes show a specific deep running hatred. Pure and undiluted, searing through her inhuman veins is the odium of the man before her. It has been in her blood for so long.

Killing him by magical means would provide the irony that he so deserved, in his magic-deprived kingdom, although it would be far too quick and painless. For the banishment of magic at his hands, he deserves a slow death, to remember every mistake he has ever made; every time he has sworn protection, and failed to award it; every time he has ordered a merciless, heartless killing. In his own words, to show mercy is a weakness. Nimueh will live by his mantra there. She will display not a speck of kindness to the cold-hearted monarch of Albion.

The king's eyelids begin to flicker, as though awaking in the early morning. However, the sight that meets his eyes, although inhumanly, menacingly beautiful, is not the last sight that he wishes to see. Her blood-red lips curve into a smirk of delight as she recognises his consciousness. It will be so much more rewarding to watch him die awake. She believes he will feel her cold pain so clearly that he will tear his skin away to escape the burning…

With the sickening glee of a woman possessed, her words spill forth, cruel and heartbreaking, for the proud father of one son.

"Your boy will die of the fever. The internal heat will prove to much for his weak little body…" The woman laughs cruelly; no thought is given for the murder of a young man – The child she had conceived for the king. Words fail the king, too weak to speak, and make his voice heard. "His heart will give out, and he will perish with no father to hold him, and tell him he loves him. Because his father will already be _dead_. So, Uther Pendragon, feeble and failed ruler of so many disloyal subjects: How do you wish to die…?"

"He does not!" The boy speaks up for the first time, one hand clenches behind his back as he forms spells with his mind that he has barely even known before this moment. He feels power that he does not know he possessed. "He has no wish to die."

The sorceress spins on her heel, turning away from Uther, her eyes blazing with anger that she has been interrupted, and by a mere boy! From the distance at which she stands, she cannot recognise Merlin, although he would know her and her curses anywhere. He has come across the woman before, although never yet has had the power with which to rid Albion of her for long. She always returns, colder, crueller, more hell-bent on revenge…

She flies. She must do, in order to reach Merlin so quickly and quietly. He is barely aware of her moving before him until she is right there, her image filling his line of sight, blocking out the bleeding sight of the king. Her eyes narrow, taking in the boy before her, and knowing him: The dishevelled dark hair, the shabby clothes, and eyes shining with an unrecognisable golden tinge.

"_Merlin…_" The single world, his name, is snarled and cold, and the boy can clearly see that she is drawing upon her own magic, in order to rid herself of this intrusion. It's not going to be that easy for her.

"No, listen to me!" It is almost desperate, almost pleading, that she pay heed to what he has to say. It should be him who is here, and not Uther! If anyone is to trade their life for the prince, then it should be his manservant, rather than his beloved father. "I know why the king is here, but he shouldn't be… Take me instead, take my life!"

Nimueh cocks her head slightly to one side as she watches Merlin, clearly wondering why he would choose that cause of action. Her words are clearly complete with cold, heartless smirk, curving the corners of her scarlet lips upwards.

"You would trade your life for the prince… Instead of allowing a terrible king to do the same? That-" She points an accusing finger at Uther, who is trying to pull himself to standing, although failing, and her smirk increases even further, at the state of weakness that he has descended to. "-Does not deserve to live. But you… You are one of my family. A magical family, caring for each other… He should be your enemy. You should not be trying to save the man who has brought nothing but terror and fear of the unknown to his kingdom and people!"

Merlin stands firm throughout her cold-blooded words, refusing to retaliate, although he feels the tips of the fingers held behind his back scorch, with the force of the magic that his is building up, to use against her. He might as well be prepared, for he does not yet know exactly how powerful she is against him. She is more practiced, and he understands that much. Merlin relies solely upon instinct, and natural impulse to cast his spells, and use his magic.

"Because Arthur is my friend - Not that you would understand friendship and kindness… And Uther is the king. If he is gone, Arthur is in no position to begin to rule! The rulers of the neighbouring kingdoms, seeing that Albion is not as strong as it used to be, with Uther at its head, will take advantage. The prince may be a warrior, but he is young, and unprepared to lead the country's arms in war…"

Barely listening to his words, Nimueh clicks her fingers, feeling the power soar through her, surging through her veins, raring to be released in lightning bolts of undefended forcefield.

"You fight a good argument, young warlock. Think about it: We could be so great together, you and I. Once I rid the world of this useless King Uther, then Arthur shall bring magic back to Albion, and we shall rule the magicians and sorcerers. Imagine the power you could have, if you channelled it properly, learnt to use that which you bear…"

The boy almost grits his teeth. He does not want to be used to the worse, to rage down death and destruction. His power is to be used for constructive purposes only, rather than be trained by her, this _witch_.

"No. I will not be your prodigy! A life must be taken in order to spare Arthur's, and it will be mine." He sounds so strongly on the topic of his death, although he knows he does it to spare this friend's, and the king's. But will the sorceress in the centre of this nature-changing decision take the high price that he pays? She is playing Mother Nature – Deciding who will live, and who will die.

Her eyes narrow and darken. She does not like the deal. Nimueh does not specifically desire Merlin dead, as he could be useful, in the future… It is Uther than she lured here, with the dramatic passing of his son's consciousness, not the prince's manservant. It is the king that she wants dead! In her fingers, she sparks a fireball. Her nails appear to glow in the strange, otherworldly light that the magic creates, and it illuminates the contours of her face. She suddenly looks dramatically less attractive to Merlin.

"Then you shall have your death, and it will save beloved Arthur. But it will not stop me doing waste to Uther, and the whole of Camelot!" Her laugh is a cackle, just before she strikes, flinging the ball of fire directly at Merlin's chest.

He draws his own magic as a protective cloak around him, but the tongues of magical flames penetrate even that, surrounded in the strongest hexes that Nimueh could conjure. He flies backwards, unable to defend himself from the fire, and feels it crackle and burn against his chest, unprotected as it is. Curses fly around his mind, attempting to create another shield around him, and doing what he can to stop the damage. But he cannot focus his mind.

Tendrils of icy-cold yet still blistering conflagration lap at his skin, burning away his clothing to expose pale skin, already scorched. Nimueh crows with laughter at his helplessness. The charms interwoven in the bundle of flames cause him to lose track of his train of thought every time he tries to rid himself of the magic binding him. A second later, and he cracks against the wall of rock surrounding the centre of the building. The power forced through him as he catapulted into the stone is enough to break his back.

A boulder above the wall wobbles, and topples down, striking the floor beside the unconscious body of the young warlock. He is bound to the ground, fallen in a heap, by incandescent, iridescent ropes of freezing fire, wrapping around him and burning wherever they touch. He could never break free, even if he was conscious, and awake. Moments later, another rock falls, and Uther can only look on in bleary eyed shock as a landslide begins, blocking off the sight of the young boy's body from the view of the two adults. They can no longer see him.

Nimueh turns back to the king, who collapses against the stone, sacrificial alter from shear weakness, and lack of any form of strength enough to help him carry his concentration through this confrontation.

She throws her head back, closing her eyes, and raising her arms skyward, screaming words of power to the heavens. Thunder cracks deafeningly dramatically overhead.

"_Mythras ce milita lami! Concia la juin!_"

This lightning strikes post-thunder. His ghost-white skin tinged with a ribbon of scarlet, Uther leans back against the stone and tries to conserve what energy remains. However, the nagging thought streaming through his mind tells him that he is done for. That there is no escape.

That he is _dead already_…


	6. Six: Self Faithful Proclamation

**Chapter Six:**

_Self-Faithful Proclamation._

He's still alive, although he doesn't know for how much longer. His own thoughts are muffled inside his mind, trapped underneath the grave of stones that have fallen around him. They are too great to lift, but he can barely move his own body-weight, let alone rocks as well. He has been weakened by the smash into the rock-face, and the charms controlling his magic usage to Nimueh's advantage. However, the life of his best friend is in danger, and there is nothing that he will not do to stop the dissolution of Camelot at the fearsome hands of the sorceress. Merlin has to concentrate, focus all his power upon relieving Uther of his torment, and ridding Albion of Nimueh while he is at it.

There is a shield around him. The very mind-power that he can conjure up, to help him in the moments that he needs it most, is that which has saved his life. The rocks cannot touch him, merely rebounding off the power that radiates from him, falling in an almost neat and orderly circle, around his fallen and immobile body. But he is not yet dead, and that means that he can do what he can to help. There is not a moment to waste, although if there were, Merlin would take that moment, and use it wisely. He has no plan, no thoughts, and certainly no idea whatsoever of what is carrying on outside. He does not even know whether the king and the prince still cling onto the conscious weight of this world. They are strong men, he fathoms. They will not have fallen to the depths needed to destroy their faith in their kingdom.

Faith. That is the one thing that the sorceress has failed to consider, in her conquest for the deaths of the elder Pendragon, and the one boy who could stop her succeeding. Faith, and hope. And Merlin, still a young man, although so much more powerful that the sorceress, is the one person who could draw upon that lack of depression in order to save the kingdom.

A moment later, he feels himself begin to heal. Without even speaking the words that were once so necessary for the casting of any sort of spell, his body begins to close up the wounds that he has sustained, replicating the blood over again. It hurts like the worst form of magical torture possible, although there is nothing that the boy can do but sit and wait until he is relieved of the weakness that had been so unwillingly forced upon him. He already feels stronger. Stronger, and most determined to continue on this self-proclaimed quest, to destroy the woman who once wanted him to join with her._ We could be so great together_,she had said, although his powers are only to be used for the benefit of those who need it most, not for neglect and hatred. He will never give into her.

Merlin forces himself to sit up, underneath the shield that had done so much good, and protects him from the falling debris of the stone wall, hiding him in this cavern. However, he cannot fail to keep this protective covering at the same potency, or the boulders will continue to fall, through the non-existent protection. Once again, the very survival of his magic has protected him. The young warlock would have died a thousand times over, if not for him being different to everyone else, and the fate of Camelot would have been sealed much prior to this time.

He practically scrabbles to his feet, terrified that, at any moment, his magic will weaken, and there will be no way for him to protect himself against the bloody onslaught. Regardless of his paranoia, the barrier holds, and he is safe to stand. Merlin presses his hands flat against the stone, looking for some weak spot; a point that he can use against the overall effectiveness of his dark tomb. Closing his eyes, the darkness becoming even more prominent, although he cannot see to that, he uses nothing but the power that he has again drawn on to search out the best place to strike. Tendrils of imaginary golden light touch the dense surfaces around, making haste through the tiny gaps between the ill-fitting boulders, and searching for the vitally weakest point, which will be the escape. Because he can do no good trapped in here, whether the witch believes him to be dead or not.

After several moments of nervous waiting, prompting the seekers to pinpoint the best spot, his eyes snap open, and the light, that only he can see, gathers around a small opening to the lower right hand side of his surroundings. The visible daylight shining through means that the gap is just enough. Golden sparks die as they touch the rock. Crouching, his fingers find the hole, forcing tiny chippings of rock out as his broken nails touch the sides, in order to release maximum power. The incantation he whispers is out loud, rather than in his mind. He wishes to force all the power he can into this one.

But there is the constant risk that his shield will fail. By restraining himself in that respect, all the magic that he can is summoned into the new spell… Forcibly retracting the barrier from about him. If he does not time it perfectly, then he will be crushed. Closing his eyes once more, he calls upon his other senses to tell him when to strike. Only the right moment will be accepted. Any other time, without warning, and he will most likely be killed. The risk is so great, but it is a chance that he will gladly take.

* * *

Outside, there is no battle being fought, even regarding the warrior king's past as a battle tactician. Camelot had been such a strong nation, now it is void of magic – Like the king. Strange, at the moment when he could have needed magic to heal himself, he would not show any weakness whatsoever. The minutes pass almost in silence, save for his weakened breathings as he troubles to stand upon those feet that have seen him through. The woman stands, arms folded across her chest, watching him with a smirk in her eyes. She _loves _seeing him like this. It returns her to a state of plenty, of power, of the situation and standing that she once held, before he ripped that so sharply and cruelly from her, and every other sorceress and warlock the kingdom over.

"If you are going to kill me…" Uther mutters, although he almost cannot bring himself to complete the sentence. He would give his life for his son's time and time again, although he could not bear to think that she would go back on her word to him. Nimueh merely laughs, knowing exactly what he was thinking.

"The boy's manservant is already dead and fortunately buried, hassle-free. Your life is of so little importance to me, Uther Pendragon. I could crush you like a bug, right at this moment. But I think that it is more fitting for you to suffer, as you have made your kingdom suffer. I am sure that a large majority of your subjects would be here to watch you breathe your last, if they were so able…" The cold smirk that tugs at the corners of her perfectly painted lips remains, her eyes blank and emotionless in the pale sunlight that glimmers across the surface of the lake surrounding them. "Yet I grow tired of my little game. You will die."

Uther raises both his hands in both a gesture of peace and to hold her in her tracks. He is not prepared to sacrifice himself just yet.

"How do I know that you will keep you word? That you will save Arthur's life, if you take mine… If one man must die to save another, then my life will spare that of my son. But I want your vow." He demands a price of her, although one that she is willing to pay. Taking his life will ensure that Arthur becomes the next king of Camelot, and he will most certainly bring magic back to the stale kingdom. _And _she gets to witness the death of her most hatred-filled enemy.

"Done…" The single word is uncaring, dropping her arms and extending one hand slowly towards him. The king does the same, believing her to want to shake on their makeshift deal, although tongues of light splay from her wrist before he can grasp her hand. He wants to pull away, although the power will not let him. He is apprehensive; scared, even.

Licking his skin, the fragments of light flicker around his hand, binding around his thumb and fingers. He looks up. The same light is touching her fingers, wrapping them both together, in an unbreakable vow of the promise made. The king will perish to save the life of the prince.

"You have my word. My word is my bond." Nimueh's words are almost lazy, withdrawing her hand backwards, and snapping the tendrils of light as they begin to fade away. Uther glances down at the palm of his hand. Scarred in the weathered skin, as though the remnants of a dagger's strike, is a worn couple of lines, intersecting through the centre to form a visible cross of rough, white skin. Yet he feels no pain. Nimueh raises her hand, the hand that had been touched by the magic, to reveal an identical symbol. "My word is my bond." She repeats, forcing back the smirk as sparks appear at her fingertips. Uther cowers backwards, just managing to remain standing.

"Then do it."

"_Felecio, incantartum!" _She screams, without a moment's delay, her words practically drowned out by the second crack of thunder… Which is accompanied by a sharp crackle, and the sound of a dramatic explosion from the opposite side of the clearing. A rift appears to open, shattering the stone grave that had contained the supposedly lifeless body of the boy, and he stands there, entirely unhurt. Having not directly seen the manservant cast the spell, Uther believes that the ensuing lightning was the purpose behind the explosion, although that thought is shattered to dust as both magicians raise their game, curses spat out against the darkening sky.

"_Oculus flagmento!" _Beads of fire, shooting through the atmosphere, rain down upon the small form of the warlock, although he brushes them away, and they transform into harmless flakes of snow as they descend. He does not look at the king. Merlin's face is the picture of a blank, emotionless canvas. Uther's mouth is agape, disbelieving. All this time, the warlock has been the manservant… Yet this is not the time to cut in.

"_Sectos_." Calmly, quietly, Merlin casts the spell that he knows she will have no resistance to. In a blinding flash of light and a scream of revenge, she barely has time to formulate the shield around her, before the spell contacts. Uther, already averting his eyes, is saved from the magnesium-bright sparks that flicker out of existence after a moment, but Merlin does not need to look away. That formidable shield protects from everything.

When the thick smoke clears, evaporating into the atmosphere above, the two are alone. Nimueh is gone.

Uther chokes out a couple of words, which Merlin only just makes out, through the thick, heavy silence.

"Is she… Is she dead? Did you kill her?" He does not yet question the magical ability that he just witnessed, first hand. He would never have believed it to be true, if he had been told the fact, rather than looking on in awe and disgrace.

"No." He replies. She had managed to bring up the defence just in time. "But I think I made her angry…" The young man pauses for a moment, unwilling to suggest anything before the king, and not wishing to bring up the concept of his blatant treason until Uther finds sense to do so. Clearly, it is not yet the opportune moment, and the king is biding his time carefully.

The skyline has darkened as the two have composed themselves, and it is clear that Nimueh is not happy one bit. She no longer will settle for one death. She wants them both buried, and by her own hands.

"Very angry indeed…"

* * *

**A/N.  
Kudus for reviews, but I won't force you to, i.e. Don't expect me round your house with a baseball bat if you don't. XD  
My super-awesome plot kicks in next chapter. I promise you, it really does!**


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